


Brooklyn Is Boring Without You

by cazei



Series: Newsies Works by Readeatsleeprepeat [4]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Canon Era, I mean?, Jack is kinda a pushover?, M/M, Mush is cute, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Protective Spot, Race can't take care of himself, Sick Race
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 09:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10694475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cazei/pseuds/cazei
Summary: Race doesn't bother fighting now, frankly he's too exhausted. Spot pulls him by his wrist through streets and alleyways. Some newsies give them a glance, but none look twice. A few roll their eyes, some muttering, but nothing more."Spo'!" Race mumbles when they pass the bridge. "Manha'an's tha' way."Spot pauses, still holding Race's wrist, and turns to look the shorter teen in the eye."Yeah, Race, I know. You think I'm letting you go back to Jack and Manhattan after they let you leave like this?""But, Spot, I live in Manha'an," Race reminds him sleepily.-Race is sick, but he sells papers anyways. That is until Spot finds out and forces him to rest.





	Brooklyn Is Boring Without You

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this while watching grays anatomy for the first time sue me 
> 
> enjoy-
> 
> i am also in a car, and half of this was written on an iphone. lmao i'll edit it eventually. enjoy.

Race spends the entire day, all of Thursday, stuck in a cot in the Lodging House.

Which, hey, vacations are never bad. And this is true.

Being too sick to stand, however, is not a vacation. Not being able to make money is not a vacation. Not having any money to pay for your rent while you can't work is not a vacation.

Race coughs into his arm and reminds himself to become immune to, well, everything. He doesn’t know how he’ll do it, but it’ll happen. He’d bet on it.

Race would bet on most things, but that's beside the point.

He ignores his unease and anxieties about missing a day of work and tries to focus on getting better.

Kloppman told him earlier to let him know if Race needs a doctor, but Race has no money, so he doubts he'll let that happen.

Besides, what kind of newsie would he be if a simple cold brought him down. He certantly wouldn’t be Racetrack, ambassador to pretty much every borough. He just wouldn’t.

So, he sits the day out. He gives coins to Mush and Blink, asking them to sell some papers for him. It’s unfair, he knows, but he can’t go back onto the streets. Besides, Mush and Blink take the coins with an issue, and he doesn’t even have to beg.

You know, Race thinks halfway through the day, the noise level in here is always so high, it’s odd for it to be silent.

It feels wrong to him for it to be so silent. He ignores it, tracking back into his mind to keep his bored, tired body occupied.

He does a lot of thinking on Thursday. Mostly about how he had asked Spot he’d start a card game in Brooklyn tonight, and won him over.

Ask isn’t the right word. He merely suggested it, and Spot approved of it. Spot, he realizes, is too easy on him. It’s probably because Race's Manhattan, and not Spot’s probelm.

Besides, they’ve talked a lot. They’re even on friendly terms. Hell, they might even consider each other friends. That is, if the King of Brooklyn had friends.

Race sure hopes they’re friends, because it’s Spot’s fault that he’s sick.

Well, it's kinda his fault.

Partly.

Race was at the Brooklyn Docks on Wednesday, playing cards with Sling and Leaf. Sling lost a round of cards and jokingly shoved Race. Unfortunately, Race has terrible balance, and he fell into the water.

Unfortuantly, Race cannot swim.

As he remembers this, Race grumbles into the air about "Stupid Brooklyn" and "Annoying bridge lovers".

All he remembers was flailing and sinking for a minute or two before someone came to their senses, realized he wasn’t faking it, and came after him.

After that, he remembers a soaking wet Sling and an angry Spot, who had been watching nearby.

As Race coughed on the docks, Spot had been yelling, "You can’t just go ‘round pushin’ people into the water, Sling! He coulda drowned! Where would we be with Manhattan if Racetrack drowned?"

Then, Race came to his senses and walked home. Naturally, Spot had people tail him to the end of the bridge, but this time he had convinced himself that it was of pity and worry, and not unease and mistrust.

Then, he went to sleep, and woke up in the morning, joints aching and colder than the water.

 

Race sighs and mashes his face into the pillow, begging sleep to come.

—

"Race!" A voice hisses. "Racetrack!"

Race mumbles what he considers a response.

"Race!" The voice yells, shoving him.

"Wha’?" Race says, peeking an eye open. It’s Jack.

"Eat this," Jack says, and hands him an apple.

"Where did you get this?"

"I swiped it. Don’t worry, I didn’t waste any money on you," Jack says. Race pretends to be offended, but that was what he had been worried of.

"What time is it?" Race asks, biting into the apple.

"Dinner just ended, so maybe eight?" Jack figures. "I don’t think you should sell tomorrow, Skittery says you look feverish."

Race rolls his shut eyes. Is that possible? "I feel fine."

"Sure you do," Jack says. "At least stay in Manhattan."

And Race does. The next morning, Race wonders about Manhattan, half in a haze. He barely makes it an hour before Boots drags him back to the bunk house, promising to sell the rest of his papers.

And so, Race spends his second day on bed rest. He learns this time, though. When Jack is back, he sits up in bed, arranged himself to look normal, and he plays it off. Jack accepts that he's gotten better, and by dinner he's already planning on heading back to Brooklyn tomorrow, to get back into routine.

\--

Mush wakes him the next morning.

"Race? You were selling today, yeah?"

Race wills himself to nod and not groan with the pain it shoots through his skull.

"Well, everyone's nearly ready. You might want to get a move on."

Race slowly sit up, and Mush and Blink are staring at him unsurely.

"Thanks, guys," Race says.

"Are you sure you're okay to sell today?" Mush asks.

"I'm fine," Race bites uncharacteristically.

Blink narrows his eyes at Race and tugs Mush away.

"He says he's fine, he's fine. C'mon, Mush, let's go," Blink says.

They leave, and Race is, yet again, alone in the Bunk House. He can hear people in the other rooms, but not in the bedroom. He sighs, throws his blanket from his lap, and fishes his boots from under the bed.

His head swims and his cheeks burn, but the rest of his body is frigid, yet he laces his shoes anyway. Ah, the life of a newsboy.

\--

Race would be lying if he said the walk across the bridge wasn't terrifying. Usually he loves it, the way it slightly sways underneath you and the way people swarm, but not today. He feels as if the wind will catch the bridge, and his jelly-feet will toss him over the barrier and into the water.

He hugs his newspapers to his chest and pushes on.

He lives, if more skittish than before, and crosses into Brooklyn. The city is bustling with people and newsies alike -- Newsies are separate from people; you don't see them, you just hand them a coin, take a paper, and never think of them again.

Race makes the journey to Sheepshead, and he tries not to regret leaving Manhattan.

He sells a few papers. People seem more generous, he must look sick and poor. Or more so than usual at least.

He never makes it into the races, he doubts they'll let him in when he looks sick anyways.

Instead, Race just leans on a post outside, selling papers to people who pass by. It's a good spot, not many Brooklyn newsies sell here.

"Buy a pape, ma'am?" Race askes a passerby. She accepts, handing him a nickel. He grins and she nods as a farewell.

As Race is shoving the silver coin into his pocket, he feels something. The hair on the back of his neck stands up, and he thinks someone's watching him.

Turning, he sees Sling starting at him. Race tilts his head, and Sling --Spot's third or fourth, Race can't keep track of the Brooklyn hierarchy at this point-- startes towards him.

Race doesn't watch as he approached, giving him time to school his features to normalcy. Sling finally reaches him, but Race ignores him and continues to say the headlines to those on the streets.

Sling stays silent, watching him for a moment as he finishes another sale.

"You don't look so good," Sling says after a pause.

"What of it?" Race scoffs.

"Nothin'. Where you been the past two days, Racetrack?"

Race wonders how much of this is small talk, and how much is going directly to or from Spot.

"Sellin' in Manhattan."

"Really?" Sling say, his eyes telling Race that he doesn't believe him. "Because no one has seen you since Wednesday."

"So? I can sell in Manhattan if I want to. I live in Manhattan, I can sell in Manhattan."

Sling rolls his eyes. "Just askin', no need to get defensive."

Race turns to glare at Sling and pretend the motion won't hurt, but Sling is walking back through an alleyway. Huh, Brooklyn.

\--

"Sling said you were here," A voice says half an hour later. Race jumps at the sudden noise, and he turns to see Spot Conlon in the alley, walking towards him.

"Yeah?" Race says, confused. "Don't you have a borough to run?"

Spot sighs, leaning against the corner. "You're in my borough, aren't you?"

Race, though a few months older, may be one of the only people shorter than Spot, and he's never despised that fact more than in the current moment.

"Why are you here, Spot?" Race says boredly.

Spot glares, and Race realizes that we may have crossed a line. "As I said, you're in my borough, aren't you? Watch it, Higgins."

Race freezes and looks at him. "Don't use that name."

Spot ignores him and tilts his head. "You don't look so hot, Higgins."

"Stop calling me that." Race looks away, readjusts the strap of his bag. "And thanks for the compliment, but I'm fine."

Spot steps in front of him, and Race simply looks the other way. Spot sighs and grabs Race's chin, tilting his head into the light.

Race's bruised undereyes, flushed cheeks, and tired eyes are visible to Spot now, and Spot gets an odd look on his face.

"Shit, Race," Spot says. "Sling was right."

Race tries to shake him off. "Why was Sling here?"

"You were gone for two days, and you missed poker. He was making sure nothing was wrong."

Race coos sarcastically. "Worried, Conlon?"

When Spot glares, Race drops his smirk and looks at the ground awkwardly. He's struck a nerve.

"If you're sick," Spot says after seemingly half a year of silence, "why are you selling?"

Race sighs. "I haven't sold much the past two days. I need to get back into routine."

"Not if you're sick."

"I'm fine, Spot. Why do you--" Race says, but Spot cuts him off.

"What's Jackie-Boy have to say about his, huh? Why isn't he making you stay back another day?" Spot asks.

"He doesn't know," Race shrugs, fighting to defend his leader.

Spot smiles a winning grin. "So you admit you're sick?"

Race swears. Really, if his mind was in the right place, he would've seen this coming.

"Fine, Spot, you win. Now, what do you want?" Race concedes.

"I want," Spot says, "for you to go back to Manhattan. You shouldn't be sellin' when you're sick, Racey."

"Why do you even care?" Race groans. "I need this money, Spot. Not all of us are in charge of two-thousand newsies."

Spot sighs as if it's obvious. "Can't have you, Mr. Ambassador, dying on my turf."

Race rolls his eyes, but he stumbles. He hadn't even been walking, but his knees give way slightly, and he pitches forward. He catches himself soon enough, but Spot noticed.

Spot's eyes narrow, and he raises a hand to Race's forehead. Race shoves him away, but he loses his balance and falls against a brick wall. Spot shoves his arms aside and puts his palm against Race's forehead.

For a moment, both boys stand panting. Race is pinned against the wall by a teen barely taller than himself, and he's got a hand to his forehead and shoulder. Spot us looking into his fogged eyes, and they both pant.

Then, Spot pulls a hand away, holding Race at arms length.

"Fuck, Race! You're burning up!" Spot exclaims.

Race try's to shove Spot off of him, but Spot grabs his wrists.

"Race," Spot says, but Race continues to fight. "Racetrack." Race struggles. "Anthony."

Race stops.

"I'm taking you to the boarding house, now," Spot says, ignoring Race's incredulous look.

Race doesn't bother fighting now, frankly he's too exhausted. Spot pulls him by his wrist through streets and alleyways. Some newsies give us a glance, but none look twice. A few roll their eyes, some muttering, but nothing more.

"Spo'!" Race mumbles when they pass the bridge. "Manha'an's tha' way."

Spot pauses, still holding Race's wrist, and turns to look the shorter teen in the eye.

"Yeah, Race, I know. You think I'm letting you go back to Jack and Manhattan after they let you leave like this?"

"But, Spot, I live in Manha'an," Race reminds him sleepily.

"I know, Race. I'm taking you to the Brooklyn Loding."

Race is suddenly awake and trying to pull his arm from Spot's grip.

"Spot, I can't."

"And why not?"

"I'm Manhattan. They'll kill me."

"Who's they? Everyone's selling. And if they have an issue with it, I think you're forgetting who I am."

Race gives him a pathetic look, and Spot rolls his eyes.

\--

Spot doesn't even give the Brooklyn-Kloppman a second glance, and the man in return doesn't blink at Spot dragging a sick-looking Race into the bunk house.

The bunkhouse is nearly identical to the Manhattan lodge, just a lot larger, and Race already feels comfortable. Or, you know, he would, if we wasn't being dragged through a building by the feared leader of Brooklyn.

Race expects Spot to shove him onto a random bunk, thus angering a Brooklyn teen, but Spot walks all the way to the end, where there's a door.

Spot opens it, and a room is revealed. It's small, maybe a large closet or two put together.

On several walls, Race can see multiple maps of different parts of the cities. There are flyers and posters, all taken from walls around the city.

There's a small bookshelf parallel to the small, low bed. It's full of large, colorful books. 

This is Spot's room.

Spot makes a grumbling noise and pushes Race towards the bed. Race stumbles and catches himself on the wall.

"Really, Race?" Spot sighs and helps him into a sitting position on his bed. "Sleep, for gods sake."

Race vaguely remembers Spot pushing s glass of water in his hand, and then nothing. 

\--  
Voices bleed into Race's sleep. He is sure who it is, but it sounds familiar.

"...He didn't come back!"

And then, Spot's voice. "He's here. Now quit your yapping and go back to Manhattan. It's late, and you need to get across the bridge while you can. I'll send him over in the morning. Good night."

The door to Spot's room shuts softly, and Race falls back asleep.

\--

Race wakes to a wet forehead, piles of blankets, and a small candle lighting a dark space.

Spot is there, putting a wet rag to Race's forehead. He's muttering incoherently, and Race keeps his eyes shut.

"Spo'?"

"Race?" Spot says, and if Race wasn't sick and the world wasn't a blur, he might say that he heard worry in his voice. "You're awake."

"Throat. It Hurts," Race mumbles.

Spot laughs humorlessly. "You're sick, Race."

Race exhales. "Yeah."

"Go to sleep, Race."

"Yeah."

\--

The next morning, Race is sure its morning this time, there's a weight on his legs.

Race rubs sleep from his eyes and sits up, careful not to shift his legs.

Spot Conlon, King of Brooklyn, legend among newsies, and known across New York, is sitting with his legs thrown over Race's, head rolled against the wall, sleeping.

Race begins to lay back down, but the movement sends a tickle down his lungs and he begins to cough.

He hunches over as the coughs overtake him. Sometime during the fit, Spot wakes up and is behind him, running his back.

"Breathe, Race," Spot says.

And he does.

And they do.

\--

It takes another hour of sleep, but Race is convinced that his fever broke.

Spot wanted to disagree, but when Race asked why he needed to stay, Spot went silent.

He did, however, live up to his word. As soon as Race was able to lace his boots back up (he doesn't remember taking them off), Spot escorted him to the bridge.

They walk in silence, both unsure of what to say. Something has changed between them, they think, but they aren't sure what.

Spot, to Race's surprise, escorts him all the way across the bridge. Finally, when they cross the line that ends the bridge, Race turns to Spot and speaks.

"Thanks for everything, Spot."

Spot snorts. "You think I'm dropping you here? No, I want a want a word with Jack. And you may not have a fever, but I still think you're about to pass out. Yeah, you're stuck with me until we get to the Lodge."

It's dangerous for a Brooklyn kid to be in Manhattan unannounced. It's war for a leader to cross borders unannounced. But, this is Spot, and this is Race. Heaven and Hell will bend to their needs if they so asked.

They make it to the Lodge. It ends with Race under Spot's arm, holding him upright, but it ends.

The Lodge is empty, and Race could have predicted it based on all the newsies they passed, giving Spot and Race odd looks.

"Where's your bunk?" Spot asks softly.

"Second to last, bottom bunk," Race supplies.

Spot sets him in his bed and pulls the covers to his neck.

"Stay in bed."

Race closes his eyes. 

Spot walks away. 

"Oh, and, Race? Get better soon. Brooklyn is boring without you."

**Author's Note:**

> Comment. Please. i am dependent on them. i'm needy ik.


End file.
